A Pride Of Princes

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Prologue The cavern was dense with smoke. The woman stepped through and dutifully it followed, purling in her wake. It gathered along the hem of her skirts like puppies on a bitch, suckling at her feet. She walked from shadow into glare, into the pure clean light of godfire as it leaped from a circular rent in the stone floor. A hole, like a wound in the earth itself, bleeding flame. Sparks issued forth, fell, formed a glowing necklet on the nap of her velvet gown. But she did not flinch as they died; the fire—like the sparks—was cold, Beyond the flame, she saw her brother. Standing as he stood so often, for hours on end, and days, at the rim of the netherworld. Godfire bathed his face in its lurid lavender glare, limning the magnificent planes of his bones. A beautiful man, her brother; she might have been jealous, once, but she knew she claimed more power. He saw her. He smiled. In the light his eyes were mirrors. Briefly the flame died back; was sucked down, withdrawn, like a tongue into a mouth. But the afterglow remained, shrouding him in light. A transcendent luminescence that made her want to squint. Beneath her feet, the floor was hard and sharp. The entire cavern was formed of black, glassy basalt, faceted as a gemstone. There were no torches in deference to the godfire', there was no need for manmade light when the Seker lent them his. 2

Jennifer Roberson

All around her columns gleamed. Slow spirals mimicked blown glass, delicately fluted; twisted strands, oddly seductive, stretched from floor to ceiling. Light lost itself in endless glassy whorls. The world ran wet with fire. She crossed, hearing the echoes of her steps and the chime of girdle, silver on black, nearly lost in the weight of velvet. As always, she smetled the breath of the god. But to her, it was not unpleasant. The promise of power was a heady scent that set her flesh to tingling. She paused on the brink of the orifice. "How long has it been since you ate?" He smiled. Trust you to concern yourself with things such as food." "How long, Strahan?"

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He shrugged; smoke shrugged with him. "A day, two, |&" three—what does it matter, Lillith? I will hardly waste fc.

away in the service of the god."

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Briefly she glanced down. They stood but six feet apart; between them lay a world. The world of Asar-Suti. They had only to open the Gate— Not yet. There was time.

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Time for the fruition of their plans. "Come up," she said. "You should eat."

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His hair, like hers, was black. And it flowed back from a brow as smooth and unlined as a girl's, though there was nothing girlish about him. It cloaked his shoulders and reached beyond, bound back by a silver fillet wrought with Ihlini runes. In the glare of the godfire his gray suede leathers were dyed an eerie lilac, glowing purple in the creases. The doublet hung open from throat and chest, and in the gap she saw the white edge of a linen tunic. Soft gray boots stretched to his thighs. His wide belt was clasped with a two-headed silver serpent. Lillith sighed as he did not answer. She was his sister, not mother or father. But both parents were long dead, and so this fell to her. "Will you come up?" "I am hungry," he admitted, "but for something more than food. And I am thirsty, also, but the wine I want is blood. The blood of NialFs sons." His eyes were alight with something more than reA PRIDE OF Piimcss

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fleeted glare. One brown, one blue; even she had difficulty looking past the mismatched pairing to the emotions in their depths. But she looked, and she saw, and knew his patience was nearly ended. "A little longer," she said. "Surely you can wait." "No. I have waited- I am done with waiting." He smiled his beautiful, beguiling smile. "Lillith—I am hungry." "Time," she said. "We have all the years of our lives." "They do not. They are human, even if Cheysuli. They die. They live seventy, eighty years, and they die. While we are still but children." "You are still a child." Lillith laughed, and the girdle chimed. "The last time I counted mine, my years were nearly two hundred." He grunted, unimpressed; he was young in years, compared to her, but his power grew every day. "I have need

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of them, Lillith. The sons are no longer infants, no longer boys. They are men. Warriors. If we wait much longer—" "But we will." Lillith shrugged naked shoulders. "We will wait as long as we must, and longer. Until the time is right." "Twenty years, Lillith!" His shout reverberated in the hidden shadows of the cavern. "Twenty years since Niall thwarted me." "Twenty years is but half a day to us." But she saw his frustration and felt a measure of her own. "I know. I know, Strahan ... I weary of it, also. But we are close. The game begins—all of the pieces are in place. As you say, now they are of an age to make a difference." "Of an age to serve me well." In the light, his mismatched eyes were eerie. "I want them. I want them here, within the walls of Valgaard, so I may make them mine. Mine to rule, as I will have them rule." He laughed suddenly, and their eyes locked in perfect accordance across the Gate of Asar-Suti. "When they are mine, Niall's sons, I will set them on their thrones, all three of them ... I will take their lir and take their minds, all three of them, making them faithful Ihlini minions—" He 4

Jennifer Koberson

broke off a moment, considering his words; continued in quiet, abiding contentment, "—and then / shall rule through their empty bodies in the name of Asar-Suti." Lillith smiled, nodded, sketched an idle rune in the air between them that pulsed with purple godfire. It spun, whirled, twisted; tied itself in knots, was gone. "Of course. It is to be expected; we have laid our plans." She paused. 'Wow will you come up?" "Up," he echoed. "Aye. In a moment- There is something I must do." And in the eerie lurid light, Strahan the Ihlini knelt in deep obeisance to the god of the netherworld. One The sun hung low in the west, painting the city rose-red, ocher-gold, russet-brown. Sunlight, trapped and multiplied by mullioned glass, made mirrors of countless windows. Mujhara was ablaze with gilded glory. The one-eyed man stood alone upon the curtain wall surrounding the massive palace of Homana-Mujhar. Spilling in all directions from the battlements was the royal city, home of kings and queens; home of the Mujhars of Homana. Home to countless others of lesser birth as well; he could not even begin to estimate Mujhara's population. He knew only that the number had increased

one hundredfold, perhaps one thousandfold, over the past two weeks. The festival was even larger than his brother had predicted. "Everyone will come, lan had said, from everywhere, even the other realms. Scoff if you like, Nialf, but it is past time the Homanans paid homage to their Mujhar. More than past time they showed their gratitude for twenty years of peaceful rule." Twenty years. It seemed longer than that. And then, at times, it seemed only days since he had assumed the Lion Throne from his Cheysuli father, Donal, who had given himself over to the death-ritual on the plague-bora deaths of his lir. With Taj and Lorn gone, there had been nothing left for Donal, save madness. And no Cheysuli warrior willingly gave himself over to madness. Not when there was a choice. Not when there was the death-ritual, which was surely more merciful than madness. S

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Niall sighed deeply, frowning down at the street far below the curtain wall, and the smooth earthwork ridge that girded the lower portions of the thick wall. He could hear the distant sounds of celebration: faint ringing tambors of the street-dancers; cries of stall-merchants; shouts and screams of children in their finery, turned loose to play in crowded streets and alleys. Dead so long, my jehan. He readily acknowledged the still familiar pain. There was grief. Regret. Even bitterness, that a man so strong and healthy as his father should throw his life away. Homanan thinking, he told himself wryly, made aware yet again of the division in his attitudes; how pervasive that division could be. Have you forgotten the oaths you made when you accepted the responsibilities of the lirbond before Clan Council? No. Of course he had not forgotten. But it was difficult to be two men at once: one, born of a Homanan mother, who was the daughter of a king; the other born of a Cheysuli shapechanger, a warrior with a lir, and claiming all the magic the gods had given the race. Automatically he looked for Serri, but the wolf was not with him. His lips tightened in annoyance. How could he have forgotten Serri was in the royal apartments? Because, he told himself ironically, in a spasm of defensiveness, with all the toasting going on, it is fortunate you can remember your own name, let alone Serri's whereabouts. Still, it displeased him that he could forget for even a moment, A sign of age, he wondered? Niall abruptly laughed aloud. Perhaps. No doubt his

children would agree he was aging, but he thought not. At forty, there were decades ahead of him still. And then he recalled that his own father had not been so much older than forty when the loss of his lir had ended his life. His mother as well was gone; Aislinn, Queen of Homana, had died ten years after Donal. Some said of grief that grew too strong. He stopped the laughter. Memories welled up. Most of them Niall had believed buried too deeply to trouble A PRIDE w PRWCES

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him. The gods knew he had tried to bury them; with drink, with daily council sessions lasting from dawn till midnight, with abrupt departures—escapes—into the woodlands with Serri, seeking respite in his fir-shape. But Deirdre had made him realize none of those things held the answers; that he would have to find a place for each memory and let it live there, where he could look at it from time to time and know what was lost, was gained, was learned. Deirdre. The memories of her were fresh, beloved, cherished, and very near the surface. But there were other ones as well, buried more deeply: of guilt, of fear, of self-hatred, because once he had believed her murdered by his own unintended instigation. No matter how helpless, how unknowing he had been, trapped within the Ihlini web of madness, deceit and sorcery, he could not think of that time in his life without experiencing a fresh burst of shame, guilt, pain. "So." She approached from his right side, his blind side; he had not heard her, either. "With all your great palace in an uproar, you'll be coming out here to escape it." Deirdre smiled, glancing over the nearest crenel to look upon the crowded city. "Peace in turbulence, then?" Though she had been with him twenty years in Homana, she had not lost the lilt of Erinn. He smiled, "Aye, escape, except there is no escape. Everywhere I turn there is a servant telling me I must go here, go there— even lan. Even you." Deirdre laughed, green eyes alight, and moved in close to his side. His arm settled around her shoulders automatically. She wore green, as she so often did, to play up the color of her eyes. It suited her, as did the torque of braided gold and carved green jade he had given her the night before. "But 'tis for you all of this is being done," she reminded him tartly. "D'ye wish to disappoint so many people who have come here to pay their respects?" He grimaced. "You make it sound like I am dead." Deirdre leaned her head against his chest. She was neither tall nor short, but he was head and shoulders above most men, even the Cheysuli. "No, not dead," she

Jennifer Kohersw said cahnly. "Very much alive—or so you would have me thinking; I who share your bed." Niall laughed and hugged her against his chest. "Aye, well, there is that." His fingers smoothed the weave of her braided hair. A year younger than he, she looked no more her thirty-nine years than his daughters. The hair was still thick and brassy gold; the skin still fair and smooth, with only a shallow threading of lines by her eyes; her hips and breasts, respectively, still slender and firm as a girl's. "What were you thinking?" she asked. "Remembering," he answered. "The night I stood atop the dragon's skull in Atvia. and lit the beacon-fire." Deirdre stiffened. "Why?" she asked. She pulled away and faced him. "Why, Niall—why that? Twas more than twenty years ago." "That is why," he told her. "Twenty years. The Homanans are even now celebrating twenty years of my rule, and all / can see are the memories of what I nearly did that many years ago." His voice was unsteady; he steadied it- "I killed your father, Deirdre. And nearly the rest of the eagles.'* His pain was reflected in her face. "You fool," she said softly. "Oh, ye great silly fool. Liam would be taking his fist to you, he would. I should." She shook her head and sighed. "Aye, Shea died, but he took the assassin with him. Else we would all be dead, and you could be blaming yourself for that." Firmly, she shook her head. "You lit the fire, 'tis true, but 'twas Alaric's doing. Thanks to his addled daughter." Addled daughter. Gisella of Atvia, half Cheysuli herself, and Niall's full cousin. Poor mad Gisella, who had married the Prince of Homana; Niall, now called Mujhar. The Queen of Homana, who now resided in Atvia in permanent exile from the land of her mother's birth. He sighed. "Aye. Tis done, as you would say. But I cannot forget it." "Then don't. Come in, instead, where a bath is being poured." She took his hand. "Are you forgetting? There is to be a feast for you in the Great Hall." A PRIDE OFPHIft/CES II "Oh, gods, not again," he blurted. "Who is host tonight?"

"Prince Einar, heir to the King of Caledon," Deirdre answered, smiling. "The one you want to make a new trade alliance with." He strolled with her along the sentry-walk. "Aye, I do. The old one is far out of date; there are more concessions to be won. Without them, we lose more money than we make, which serves Homana not at all. What I want to get—" "No," Deirdre said firmly. "No, don't be filling my ears with that. I've been hearing too much of it these past two weeks, and I'll hear more of it over my food. No, Niall—not now." He laughed. "Well enough, meijha—not now. I am sick of it myself." The sentry-walk was not wide enough for two to walk abreast comfortably, not when one was as large as Niall. He moved Deirdre away from the edge, closer to the wall, and assumed the risk himself. Below them, in the other bailey, men-at-arms in new crimson livery practiced a close-order drill. The shouted orders from the captain carried easily to the sentry-walk, though Deirdre and Niall were still some distance away. It was easiest to stay on the wall and follow it around than to go down into the baileys, which were thronged with royal escorts and honor guards from other realms. Niall sighed. "I think Homana-Mujhar will burst before the month is through. Certainly Mujhara will." Deirdre frowned absently. "Einar," she said. " Twas him, was it not, so dissatisfied with his chambers?" Niall snorted inelegantly. "You are chatelaine of this great sprawl of red stone, meijha, not I." Deirdre's face cleared. "Aye, 'twas him. He demanded better quarters." "Well, he is a king's son—and the heir to Caledon." "And what of the heir to Ellas?" Deirdre demanded. "Am I to put Diarmuid out just because Einar wants his room?" "What did you do?" Niall asked curiously. Jennifer Robersou Deirdre grinned. "Homana-MuJhar is filled to bursting, my lord Mujhar. I made them share." Niall's shout of laughter erased the lines of tension that had etched themselves into his face as a result of trying

to juggle multiple princes, envoys, cousins and heirs without giving offense to any. Deirdre felt he needed no more lines at all, regardless of his responsibilities; Strahan's demon-hawk had already ruined enough of his face. A patch hid the empty right socket and most of the scarring, but the old talon weals still scored the bridge of his nose and much of his right cheek, as well as dividing one tawny eyebrow neatly in half. She glanced up at his face. To her, it was familiar, beloved, unremarkable, save for the unmistakable stamp of Cheysuli pride, even if he lacked the coloring. But to others, unaccustomed to the disfigurement, he was noteworthy only in that respect. She had first known him as a young man, at eighteen, when the handsome looks of his maternal grandsire. Carillon, had been fresh, boyish, as yet unformed by adversity. But the demon-bom hawk of Asar-Suti had robbed him of his boyhood in addition to his looks. For that, if for nothing else, Deirdre hated Strahan. Through the casements of the palace came the dim glow of new-lit candles. The rose-red hue of the stone deepened as the sun dropped down behind the massive walls, from pink to dull, bloodied gray. Deirdre suppressed a shiver; there were times, she thought, HomanaMujhar resembled a monument to war and death, rather than the home of Homanan kings. Niall took her off the sentry-walk into one of the exterior comer towers, then down a coil of stairs to the interior of the palace. Deirdre had always felt HomanaMujhar more confusing than Kilore, the clifftop fortress her brother Liam ruled from in Erina. Kilore, known as the Aerie of Erinn, was plainer, more functional, lacking the multitudinous staircases and tower chambers of Homana-Mujhar. But then perhaps it was only time and distance that made it seem so; Deirdre had not been home in eighteen years. A PKIDE OF PRINCES

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"We should go," she said abruptly, as Niall took her into his chamber. Protocol required they keep separate apartments, and so they did—even had they wed, it would have been the same—but more often they spent the nights in his. "We should go to visit Liam before we are old and gray." Niall bent to greet the black-masked silver wolf who got up from his place in the huge draperied tester bed to lean against one thigh-booted, royal leg. Their brief communion was intensely private, intensely singular, but Deirdre was used to it. No one came between a warrior and his lir, not even the woman he loved. Serri, his greeting complete, went back to the bed. Niall smiled, brushed back a lock of hair from his brow and looked at Deirdre in amusement. "The gray begins

already, meijha—perhaps we should leave for Erinn tomorrow." "Ah> ye skilfin, you're no more gray than I am!" But she put a hand to her heavy braid as if to reassure herself she bore no tainted strands. " 'Tis serious I am, Niall— how many times must Liam invite us? And I his own sister?" "And still a princess of Erinnr" Niall stopped abruptly as he shut the heavy door behind her. "Ah, Deirdre, will you forgive me for that? You deserve to be a queen." Astonished, she stared up at him. One slim hand was locked in his plain brown doublet. "Niall . . ." Slowly she shook her head. "Ah, no—d'ye think 'tis what I want? No, no, my love—'tis nothing to me, I swear, this thing of titles." Her mouth flattened, then twisted scornfully. "Queen of Homana, indeed. Well, I say let Gisella keep it—'tis all she has. I have you." "Not so much, I think," he said mildly, but bent his head to kiss her. A knock at the door intruded. "My lord? My lord Mujhar? Taggart, my lord ... are you there?" Niall sighed. "A moment," he promised her, and went to open the door. "Aye, Taggart, I am. What is it?" Taggart was a slim, wiry man of fifty, clad in Homanan colors: black tunic with a red rampant lion stitched over

Jennifer Stobersoa his left breast. His trews were also black, with a giltbuckled red leather belt cinching his waist. Graying hair was trimmed neatly against his head. He bowed briefly. "My lord—it is the princes." Niall looked past the man to the empty corridor- "Oh? Where?" Taggart was clearly uncomfortable. "My lord—not here. That is why / am here." He paused. "Because they are not." The Mujhar's tawny brows rose a trifle. "Taggart, what are you trying to tell me? And make haste—my bath is getting cold." Taggart bowed again, eloquent apology. "My lord, I—well—" He paused. "They are missing."

"Missing?" Niall smiled indulgently. "For the moment, perhaps, but I am sure they are here somewhere. You might try the stables; Brennan has a new stallion. Or the guardroom, if Hart has coin enough left for a fortunegame." He shrugged negligently, patently unconcerned by the temporary disappearance of his three sons. "And only the gods know what Corin may have suggested as an afternoon's diversion." "Or Keely," Deirdre added dryly. "My lord, no," Taggart said plainly. "I have looked in all those places. They are not here. They are not m Homana-Mujhar." Deirdre came up to Niall's left side, where he could see her clearly; it was a habit she encouraged in everyone so he would not be embarrassed unduly or caught offguard. "They knew about the banquet," she said, though it sounded more question than statement. "I know they did; Brennan remarked on it. He said he did not think much of Einar, or Einar's cousin, Reynald." She nodded, frowning a little. " 'Tis what he said, did Brennan— about the Caledonese princes." Niall heaved a weary sigh of distracted annoyance and scratched at the scars in his right cheek. "Well, if Brennan remarked on it, then it took Hart to persuade him to leave so soon before a banquet. And Hart, likely, was talked into it by Corin. Oh, gods—" he cast a longA PRIDE OF PRINCES IS suffered glance at the ceiling, "—when you saw fit to bless me with three sons, you might have given me proper ones. Ones who know how to respect their jehan's wishes." He shook his head. "How is it / have raised three rebels? I was never particularly rebellious, myself." Deirdre laughed. "Were you not, my lord? But I think you must have been, because I'm seeing you in alt of them. Though more, I'll own, in Brennan than in the others." "He is the first-bom," Niall said absently. "And he knows he will be Mujhar after me; it makes a difference." "Keely probably knows where they are," Deirdre suggested, somewhat pointedly. Niall cast her a disgusted glance. "For all we know, Keely might have encouraged their defection. She is as bad as any of them. There are times I think she is more a warrior than even myself." "Shall I ask her, my lord?" Taggart inquired. Niall waved the suggestion away. "No, no—Keely would

never say. If Corin is involved, she'll say nothing simply to protect him, even if she had nothing to do with it. Even, I think, if / asked her," He shook his head, frowning again. "Brennan knows better. Hart and Corin may not, but he does." "Aye," Deirdre said gently, "but he protects Hart and Corin now just as he did when they were children. D'ye think he'd be stopping simply because they're grown?" "Are they?" Niall's tone was sour. He did not wait for her answer, but turned to Taggart. "You may go. I attach no blame to you. It is not your fault if the Mujhar cannot control his own unruly sons." Taggart, smiling, bowed and took his leave. Niall shut the door and turned back to face Deirdre once more. "Well, then, what is there to do? There will be three empty chairs where there are supposed to be princes, and Einar will undoubtedly consider it a snub." "Oh, Einar!" Deirdre's tone clearly signified her opinion of the Caledonese heir. "I'll set Maeve next to him, and he'll not be noticing absent princes. And I'll put Keely on the other side." Her widening smile was suspiJennifer Roberson ciously devious. "Caught between those two, he'll not be knowing what has become of him." "Oh, gods," Niall begged, "save me from a woman who dearly loves intrigue." And then, abruptly, he began to smile. "Einar will never recover." "No," Deirdre agreed contentedly. " Tis why I'll be doing it." "Still—" Niall moved past her to the nearest chair and dropped into it, propping his booted feet up on a table that bore a decanter of wine and two goblets, "—they might have picked a better night to play truant. I do want that trade alliance. And I did want Brennan to handle as much of the negotiation as he could. He needs the practice." "Brennan knows enough of negotiations." Deirdre poured him wine, passed him'she goblet. "He is a mature, responsible man, Niall, norai boy. Save your disgust for Conn's bad tempers, or Hart's gambling debts, or Keely's waywardness—but give none of it to Brennan. He's not deserving of it." "Come here." He sipped from his goblet as she came to perch on the arm of his wooden chair. "Tell me what you are deserving of." "Your love," she answered promptly. "Am I not generous with mine? And I have given you a lovely daughter."

"Maeve is lovely," Niall agreed immediately, paternal pride rearing its head, "And sweet-tempered, and softspoken, and eager to please ... all the things Keely most decidedly is not." "And do you love her the less for it?" Niall, smiling, shook his head. "She is a proud, strong woman, Cheysuli to the bone. . . ." He grinned at Deirdre, slipping into the Erinnish lilt. "And I'd be wanting her no other way." "And the boys?" Deirdre's green eyes, across the rim of her silver goblet, were demurely downcast, but Niall knew her far too well. "Aye, and I know what you are trying to tell me, meijha—that I should want them no different, either. Mostly, I do not. But there are times. . . ." A PRIDE WPRWCES

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"Times," she said. "Like now? The bathwater, I'm sure, is cold, and yet you sit here and drink your wine. You are no better than your sons, my lord Mujhar." "But you see, I am Mujhar. The banquet must wait for me." His fingers were in the lacings of her gown. "The banquet must wait for us both," Deirdre smothered a giggle. She was, she thought, too old for giggles now. "And your sons?" she asked. "What about your sons?" . "At this particular moment, I am less concerned with my sons than with the knots you have tied in your laces. Have you taken up celibacy?" The giggle broke free of her throat. "No. Very definitely, no." She reached'down, took his belt-knife from its sheath, presented it to him hilt-first. "My lord Mujhar, must I be plainer still?" Niall, smiling, accepted the knife and deftly cut the first lace. "The banquet," he said calmly, "will be indefinitely delayed." Deirdre sat very still. "To make certain your sons will be present, of course." "Of course," he agreed equably, and cut the second knot. Two The tavern was one of Mujhara's finest. It lay in High

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Street, where business catered to the aristocracy of ^ Homana: where boys with brooms swept the cobbles six J^ times a day and poured water on the puddles of urine left^ by horses, sweeping again, so customers did not have to concern themselves with the condition of their boots. The Rampant Lion was clean, well-lighted, well-run, and enjoyed an excellent reputation, faring well even among stiff competition.

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Rhiannon had not expected to get the job as wine-girl ^ at The Lion. But she had paid six copper pennies for a H bath two days before she applied, pinned up her hair in H the way she had seen ladies do, and put on the cleanest || dress she owned. Carefully, she had told the tavernf. keeper in her best accent that she was of good family, ^ but lacked means; was there a place for a young woman |J who needed to earn a living in a respectable establishment? She was delighted when her looks and well-practiced ^ refinement won her the position, and she worked very hard to keep it. She was born of poor people; she had thought to spend her years in poverty and whoredom. But the gods had blessed her with cream-fair skin, thick black ^ hair and wide black eyes, and a form that would win any ^. man's regard. ^:.

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It did not fail her now. She passed easily among the tables, serving the fine wines The Rampant Lion specialized in. The Falian white, considered by many to be the finest vintage available, sold best. But the sweet Cale-

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18 A PRIM OF PRINCES 19 donese red and the rich, dark vintage of Ellas did nearly as well. The ales and lagers found fewer throats; Homanan nobles had a taste for wine, rarely imbibing lesser brews, and almost never the common liquors, such as usca. It was considered too harsh among the nobles, who boasted more refined tastes. Nonetheless, it was usca Rhiannon was instructed to bring to a rectangular table of polished hardwood near the wide-boiled trunk of the roof-tree in the middle of the common room. She set the 'stoneware jug in the precise center of the table, put down the pottery cups without the crude clacking sound heard in most taverns, where the wine-girls knew no better, and watched as the three young men poured-the blue-glazed cups quite full. It was obvious, from the way they drank it down, usca was no stranger to their throats. She curtsied as gracefully as she knew how, hoping for a generous tip. They could afford it, she knew; she had an

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eye for wealth. These three young lords dressed less ostentatiously than many others in the common room, clothed in subdued if rich velvet and soft-worked leather, but there was gold around their necks as well as in their ears. At least, in one ear. On them all, only the left bore ornamentation, They were all fine looking men, she thought; the gods had blessed them with good bones and fine, clean lines in their handsome faces, accentuated by strong, straight noses and well-defined mouths. All men, she thought, if young still, lacking the hardening that years and experience would bring them- Rhiannon's taste ran to men, not pretty boys; these three were aesthetically satisfying as well as highborn, and more than comfortable in the belt-purse. One, however, was clearly Cheysuli. Though he was the first shapechanger Rhiannon had ever seen, she knew. She had heard stories about them; how they slept with animals instead of women and so could shift their shapes, not being wholly human. A man could tell them by their color and their gold; Cheysuli were uniformly black36

Jennifer Roberson

haired, dark-skinned, and their eyes, as his, were always a clear, uncanny yellow. But where was his animal? Rhiannon looked carefully, searching discreetly for the beast that was his other self. But the only thing visible beneath the table were their legs. Six of them, altogether, all knee-booted and thigh-muscled under taut, soft leather breeches of excellent cut and quality. ' She glanced up, frowning, and saw his eyes on her. Rhiannon sucked in a startled breath. Yellow was not enough, she decided; not nearly enough to describe Cheysuli eyes. They were yellow, aye, and odd enough in that, but there was something about them that made her back away a step, clutching her linen apron. He looked at her, and she froze, unable to take a step. "Aye?" he asked, when she continued staring. A human voice. No growl. No bark. No whine. Transfixed, Rhiannon did not answer. "Aye?" he asked again, and the slanted black brows drew down. He was, she thought, a demon, all black and bronze and yellow.

"Are you a lackwit, Brennan?" one of the others asked. "She works for more than kind words and copper pennies." Almost absently, he rattled dice and rune-sticks in a wooden casket. A heavy sapphire signet ring glistened on one long finger. He had the hands of an artist, she thought; the hands of a musician. "Of course." The shapechanger reached into his beltpurse and took out a silver piece. Without looking, he offered Rhiannon the coin. When she did not take it, he looked at her again, turning away from the sticks and dice the other threw. The silver was quite bright against the dark flesh of his fingers. "I think," drawled the man with the casket, "she has only just seen her first Cheysuli-" He grinned and looked up at her. "Let alone three at once," Three? Rhiannon looked at him quickly. He was blackhaired, aye, and his skin was as sun-bronzed as the shapechanger's, but his eyes were decidedly blue. Very A PRIDE of PRINCES

21

blue; the sort of blue that put her in mind of spring, and the richness of the sky. They made her think of love, his eyes; so did the smile he smiled. Disconcerted, she looked away from him as well. To the third, where she knew herself safe at last. He was all Homanan, obviously, with tawny blond hair and dark blue eyes; his skin was Homanan fair. And when he looked at her it was not to frown as the shapechanger did, or to smile an invitation as the second one did; no, none of those things. When he looked at her it was to look at her, to find out what she wanted. Well, what did she want? Rhiannon put up her chin. "Aye," she agreed plainly. "I've not seen a shapecHanger before." "Cheysuli," The shapechanger put the coin on the table, where it glinted against polished wood. "Not 'shapechanger,' meijhana . . unless you mean to insult us." There it was agath^us. She frowned, flicked a glance at the blue-eyed man with the fortune-game, looked quickly away as his smiled slowly widened. And the fair-haired man merely laughed. "So much for believing the Homanans trust us," he said. "Well, Brennan, how does it feel to have a woman

afraid of you, instead of trying to keep your favor for more than a single night?" "Cruel, cruel, Corin," the man with the casket drawled, and yet his smile belied the words. "You will have me thinking you are jealous of your oldest rujholU.'" Rhiannon thought the fair-haired man—Corin, the other had called him—was her age, which made him all of twenty. The other two, she was certain, were older yet, by at least a year. The shapechanger looked at her. "Are you afraid of me?" Rhiannon swallowed. "Aye." Somehow, she had hurt him. She saw it quite clearly, and instantly. There was little change in his expression, but the eyes were eloquent. Such an eloquent, eerie yellow, "Well," he said, after a moment's thoughtfiil silence, 22 Jennifer Roberson "perhaps you would do well to serve the other tables, and send some other girl to us." Oh, gods, if that were to happen, she would lose her place for certain! "No," she said quickly. "No, I—I'll serve you." She nodded in the direction of the jug. "You have your usca now. You won't be needing more." "Will we not?" Tawny Corin smiled and lifted his pottery cup. "You judge us too quickly, meijhana." There it was again, the strange, foreign word. Shapechanger? Rhiannon thought it likely. No doubt when they were together, they spoke in growls and barks. "Brennan frightens the girl, and now Corin flirts with her." The third young noble laughed. "What is left over for me?" Yellow-eyed Brennan looked up at Rhiannon. "Do you wager?" he asked calmly, without the trace of a smile. And yet she saw one clearly in his eyes; it was meant for the man with the fortune-game. "Say aye, and you will make Hart's evening complete." "No, no," the other—Hart—demurred. "You leave out what comes after, when a lady is involved." That Rhiannon understood plainly enough. Shapechangers they might be, but obviously it was not true they only lay with beasts. She knew desire when she saw it, as well as the prelude to it. "No, I don't wager," she told them curtly- "Not even with silver pennies." And she went away, leaving the

coin upon the table. As one, they looked at the spumed gratuity. In the light from hanging lanterns, the silver royal gleamed. "Well," said the one called Hart, "I wonder if she would come back for it if she knew what it was worth- Silver penny indeed!" As he made as if to pick it up, Brennan hid it beneath one palm. "Wager with your own coin," he said grimly. "Or have you none left?" "None left," Hart said cheerfully. "A run of bad fortune." As if on cue, one of the rune-sticks rolled. Corin's snort was eloquently condescending. "Only bad fortune because I was the better man when you tried to A PRIDE Of PUNCES 23 beat me this afternoon." He picked up the stick and dropped it back into the casket. "Which means Brennan and I must pay for the usca."* "You can," Brennan told him. "I came here because I knew better than to let you two go out alone, not because I wanted to go drinking." "And yet you are." Hart indicated Brennan's full cup, "Hardly water, rujho—I can smell it from here." Corin smiled. Brennan merely shrugged. "All men make sacrifices." "And you more than most?" Corin demanded. "Oh, aye—when you will have Homana!" Brennan sighed; it was an old bone of contention. "You will have Atvia." "And I, Solinde." Cheerfully, Hart scooped the dice and sticks back into the wooden casket. "Three princes, we, with glory yet to come in addition to fine titles. But I think, right now, I could do with less glory and more wealth." He eyed the silver royal. "Are you certain you want the girt to have it, after what she said?" "I want the girl to have it," Brennan agreed. "And if you so much as fry to take it when I am not looking, I will cut a finger off." • ^ "If you are not looking, how will you know?" "Because I would tell him." Corin shrugged as Hart

scowled darkly at him. "What would you expect?" "A little support, rujho." "Brennan is your twin, not I. Look to him for support." Corin downed more usca. Hart's scowl deepened. "Why do you resent it, Corin? You have a twin in Keely." "Who says I resent it?" Corin retorted. And then, grimly, "Keely is a girl. We are close, aye, as close as you and Brennan—but she is still a girl. It makes a difference, r^jho." "Keely is a woman," Brennan corrected absently. Hart laughed. "Aye, she is. Or would you name yourself a boy, Corin, even now at twenty?" "SAe does not see herself as a woman," Corin stated flatly. 24 Jennifer Roberson "No." Hart's brows climbed beneath raven hair. "No, she sees herself as a warrior." His smile was amused. "The only trouble with that is, the gods saw fit to give her a woman's body." Corin frowned. "She has no desire to be a man. She just prefers to be something other than a fragile thing like Maeve." "Keely is nothing like Maeve," Brennan agreed.

:

Hart snorted indelicately. "No. And I will lay a wager on it that Sean of Erinn, when he claims our warriorsister, will have a difficult time taming her." "Keely will never be tamed," Corin said plainly, "and you will lay a wager on anything." He scowled blackly at Hart. "As to that, I would trust my life to Keely sooner than most men." "Aye, aye, so would I." Hart set the casket down in front of Brennan. "Care for a game, rujhoT* Brennan's eyes narrowed. "I thought you had no coin." "I have what Corin owes me." Hart looked at his astonished younger brother. "I won twenty-five crowns off you last week." "When?" When we wagered on how soon Brennan would be thrown from his new stallion." Hart grinned at his older brother. "The third jump, remember? I won the bet."

Brennan glared back. "You bet against me?" "No. I bet on the horse." Brennan slapped his hand down as Corin reached toward his belt-purse. "Do not put a penny on this table. You know better than to encourage him." "But he won," Corin protested. Brennan leaned toward him across the table. "Not a penny, Corin." Hart patted the casket. "A suggestion, rujho—let the game decide. I win: Corin gives me the money. You win: Corin gives you the money." He grinned, blue eyes bright. "Surely a fair way to decide." Brennan sighed and leaned his face into one. hand. "One day," he muttered, mostly against his palm, "one A PftfDE OF PRINCES

25

day, Hart, you will regret ever learning how to play these games," Hart rattled the casket. "Care to wager on that?" "Care to wager on that?" Corin looked past them both to a table just beyond their own. Accordingly, Hart and Brennan turned to see what had caught Corin's attention. It was Rhiannon, Rhiannon and a young aristocrat who obviously wanted more from her than wine. As he grabbed her, pulling her onto his lap, Rhiannon cried out and tried to lurch away. The wine jug she carried slammed against the edge of the table and shattered, spilling gouts of blood-red liquor across the table and onto the young nobleman's fine clothes. He shoved her away, swearing as he leaped to his feet. Rhiannon stumbled against the table and thrust out both hands to keep herself from falling. As she clutched at the wine-soaked wood, a shard of broken crockery cut her hand. Even as Rhiannon, trembling, backed away from the furious lord, he followed her. He seemed not to notice that the hand she clutched against her breasts left blood smears on her apron, nor that she- was plainly mortified by what had happened and terrified of him. He spoke to her angrily in a foreign tongue, then slapped her across the face so hard he sent her staggering into another

table. But his move had been anticipated. Brennan caught her, steadied her, held her. Rhiannon sucked in a frightened breath as she saw who had rescued her. And then she saw how she had smeared blood on his black velvet doublet. "Oh, my lord—I'm sorry—" "You should not be. Not you." Gently-he set her aside and rose to tower over her. She had not thought he was so tall, but then she was quite petite. "It is his place to apologize." Rhiannon shot a startled glance at the foreign lord, No, she thought, it was her place to say the words. "My lord—" 26 Jennifer Robersw "No." The shapechanger shook his head and stirred black hair against his shoulders, against the nap of his matching doublet. His hands fell away from her waist and Rhiannon saw the black leather belt at his, weighted with plates of hammered gold. On his left hip a knife was sheathed. The gold hilt was smooth, shining and lovely; its shape was of a mountain cat. But even as she opened her mouth to protest yet again, he looked at the foreign lord. "Apologize to her." The young man's hair was curly and dark, oiled with a scented pomade that turned it glossy black. His nose was slightly prominent, with a crooked set that made his brown eyes appear set too far apart. His fine silk-andvelvet clothes, once pale cream and jonquil, were now variegated a sickly purple-red. Rhiannon nearly giggled. The bent nose made it difficult for the foreigned to look down it in a straight line, but his attitude was made plain nonetheless. In accented Homanan, he said, "I apologize to no tavern-drab." "Apologize," Brennan repeated. "You frightened her, struck her, hurt her. It is the least you should do." "By Obram, I will not!" the other cried. "Do you think / am required to do such a thing? I am the nephew of the King of Caledon!" "Prince Einar's cousin?" Brennan nodded as the other stared. "It means you are Reynald, then; I thought you looked familiar." His smile was neither friendly nor amused. "My lord, I suggest that while you remain in Homana, you subject yourself to Homanan custom. Apol-

ogize to the girl." Reynald plainly was unintimidated. "I will not," he stated flatly in his accented Homanan, and made a gesture that brought the others at his table filing out to flank him. Knives and swords glittered with gems, but the weapons were clearly lethal even in their ceremonial flamboyance. As one. Hart and Corin rose. Reynald smiled. "You are three. We are eleven." "He counts," Hart observed. 27 A PRIDE OFPKJWES "He smells," Corin added. "What is that oil on his hair?" At that, the tavern-keeper came out from behind a cask of wine. "Please," he said, "this is not necessary. I will recompense you for your clothing, my lord." Reynald stared down his crooked nose. "And for the Insults from this man?" The tavern-keeper looked at Brennan helplessly. "My lord, please—" "Please what?" Brennan asked irritably. "It was his fault; you saw it. He deserves no recompense." "He deserves to be booted out of here and back to where he came from," Corin announced flatly. "Are you forgetting, my foreign lordling, that you are in our land?" "Precisely," Reynald agreed coldly. "Is this the way you treat your guests? Is this the way you treat a man who is to play host to the Mujhar himself this very night? Is this the way you treat a member of the Caledonese royal family?" Hart smiled. "Does Einar know you are here?" "My tavern," the tavern-keeper moaned. Brennan placed a hand on Rhiannon and thrust her gently toward the man- "Bind her'wound, if you please. This should not take long." Reynald snapped something in Caledonese to his nearest guardsman. The man drew a knife and lunged. Brennan avoided the Caledonese smoothly enough and let the man's momentum carry him through his initial

lunge. On the way by, Brennan planted clasped hands in the back of the guardsman's neck and smashed him to the floor. The man went down and difl not move. Brennan's brothers looked down on the body at their feet. Hart nodded sagely; Corin merely grinned. A blood-red ruby set in gold glowed on Brennan's finger. He smiled at Reynald and hooked thumbs in the plated belt that clasped lean hips clad in raven velvet. He was considerably taller than Reynald. Behind him, Hart matched him in height and weight; Corin was shorter and slighter, but looked tenacious as a terrier. "Now will you apologize?" Brennan calmly asked. 28 Jennifer Roberson For answer, Reynald cried out angrily, snatched up a cup and hurled the contents in Brennan's face. As Brennan swore and wiped his eyes, the nine remaining Caledonese guardsmen spread out to encircle the three Homanan princes. Brennan abruptly found himself pressed back against his own table. As his eyes cleared, he found a knife blade at his throat and felt the prick of a sword tip in his spine. "Still unconvinced?" he said in passing to Reynald, and lifted a wrist against the knife as he spun to dislodge the sword. Corin, closest to the door, ducked yet another knife as it slashed toward his face, and quickly drew his own. Blades clashed, caught, were twisted; Corin's hilt remained in his hand while the other man's did not. The Caledonese stared in consternation at his empty hand. Pleased, if a trifle surprised—it was his first encounter in anything other than practice—Corin grinned happily and turned to seek out another foe. Hart, caught between Brennan and Corin, almost immediately found himself cut off from either of them, hemmed in on three sides by Caledonese. His indecision was quickly banished; Hart leaped up onto the table, cracking rune-sticks and scattering all the dice of his forgotten fortune-game. A swordblade darted toward his right leg, but he avoided it easily, skipping over yet another. Four of the enemy approached; Hart quickly acknowledged the folly in remaining on the table providing an easy target and sought a quick escape route, A glance upward showed him the only means. Hart leaped for a low, thick limb of the massive rooftree. He caught it, swung his body out and over his attackers easily, and dropped on them like a mountain cat on its prey. Tables overturned as the fighting spread to encompass the entire common room. Jugs and cups shattered, spill-

ing rivers of wine across tables, benches, the hard-packed earthen floor with its carefully stamped insignia of the rampant Homanan lion. Brennan, having dispatched the Caledonese whose sword A PRIDE OFPRWCES

29

threatened his spine, abruptly somersaulted backward over a table to avoid another swipe and landed on his feet, knife in hand. He had not meant to draw it, preferring to avoid edged weapons in the midst of such a stupid, silly brawl, but it seemed he had no choice. And so, shrugging a little, he threw the knife in a glittering arc at an enemy, and saw the guardsman fall at Reynald's feet. He was not dead, Brennan knew, because the knife— though hilt-deep—was in a shoulder, not his heart. Accurate as always; he nodded in satisfaction. The satisfaction did not last long. A second guardsman leaped for him, knife in hand. Brennan caught handfuls of the yellow Caledonese livery, ripping the tunic as he tried to thrust the guardsman against a table. But he lost his grip as the silk tore, slipped in spilled wine, and fell heavily to one knee. The Caledonese knife blade sliced easily through velvet sleeve to flesh beneath, cut deeply, then caught on the heavy A'r-band above Brennan's left elbow. The guardsman tore the knife free to strike again, scraping steel against gold. The velvet, shredding, gave way; the rune-worked gold was suddenly clear for all to see, with its flowing mountain cat.clawing its way free of metal. Blood flowed freely to fill the incised runes. Brennan swore in the Old Tongue, forgoing his Homanan, and made himself ignore the pain. As the man thrust again, looking for flesh instead of gold, Brennan pushed himself up from the floor and slammed a shoulder into his chest. "Brennan!" Hart called. "The knife—" "—did little damage!" Brennan shouted back. "Look to yourself, rujho1." Hart did, neatly avoiding a sword swung perilously close to his right hand. He immediately jammed ihe threatened hand against his ribs and kicked out with a booted foot. He stripped the sword from the enemy's grip. Corin, outnumbered rather more quickly than he had imagined, dragged himself out from under a senseless Caledonese and slashed weakly at the closest yellow-clad

w Jennifer Roberson teg he could find. The blade bit into the leather boot sluggishly, doing little damage, but it caught the attention of the wearer. Swearing in indecipherable Caledonese, the guardsman stomped down on Conn's bared wrist and knocked the knife from his hand. Pain shot the length of Corin's arm. "Ku'reshW he cried, outraged, "let me up—" Just as outraged by Corin's attempt to stab through leather to his leg, the guardsman merely put more weight on the trapped limb. Corin let out a string of Cheysuli obscenities, then— too proud to lose but not too proud to ask for help—he shouted for his brothers. When neither answered, he realized abruptly they had their own battles to fight and he was solely responsible for his. It was not a pleasing thought; he had grown accustomed to shouting for one or the other of his brothers, if not both, whenever necessary. Now, unhappily, Corin came to the disturbing realization that occasionally there was no one to rely on save himself. "By all the gods of Homana," he muttered to the floor so close to his face, "why did we leave the Ur in Homana-Mujhar?" The guardsman glared down at him. "What are you saying, Homanan? Begging my mercy already?" Corin, sprawled belly-down with the trapped wrist stretched out in front of him, twisted his head to look up. "Mercy?" Astonished, he gaped at the Caledonese. "/ will give you mercy—" Abruptly, putting the aching wrist out of his head entirely, Corin lurched up and locked his left arm around the heavy leather boot. Before the guardsman could retreat, Corin had ripped open his knee with a savage bite. The Caledonese let out a howl of shock and pain and stumbled back, freeing the wrist, and nearly ripped Corin's teeth from his mouth. Corin, kneeling as he flexed his swelling wrist, was privately amazed at ha success. Then a hand came down, caught his russet velvet doublet and jerked him to his feet. "You cannot win battles on the floor," Hart said mildly. A PRIDE OFPRMCES 31 "I won that one." Corin grinned at the cursing Cale-

donese. And then he stopped grinning, because the man with the bitten knee lunged past Corin and upended Hart entirely. " Ku'reshtinV Corin cried, and flung himself on the enemy. Hart, squashed beneath both of them, tried ineffectively to wriggle free. At last he resorted to swearing at the enemy and his brother. "Corin—get—off—" "I am trying . . ." Corin scrambled backward awkwardly, planting a knee against Hart's left thigh, and dragged the Caledonese with him. Hart, wheezing, sat up slowly and clasped tender ribs. The tavern door, so very close to Hart, slammed open. He winced instinctively, hunched his shoulders and hugged his ribs even harder. Boots thudded against the hardpacked floor and swords rattled out of sheaths. Hart, catching a glimpse of crimson silk and leather-and-mail, felt the beating of his heart abruptly stop. He squinted up at the men hesitantly, then closed his eyes. Aye- It was the Royal Mujharan Guard. Part of it, anyway. "Jehan will have our heads for this," he commented in cheerful resignation, and smiled innocently at the nearest of his father's men-at-arms. Brennan, consumed with gaining a victory over a Caledonese who simply would not go down, felt the lance shaft across his throat. Gently it pressed, so gently, warning him subtly, but firmly enough to threaten the fragility of his windpipe. Slowly, Brennan let his hands drop back to his sides. In pleased surprise he watched his opponent stagger, straighten, collapse onto the floor. The Prince of Homana nodded, smiled, turned slowly within the cage of the lance to face his new opponentAbruptly he froze. Leaping out of the crimson tunic over the leather-and-mail was a black Homanan lion, rampant: his father's royal crest. It matched perfectly the black-etched lion in Brennan's ruby signet ring. The Homanan guardsman recognized his prisoner at the same time. The lance fell away. "My lord!" 32 Jennifer Roberson Corin, as yet unaware of the new arrivals, scrambled out from beneath two now-prone Caledonese guardsmen. His face was smeared with blood, but his eyes were suspiciously bright. He grinned, delighted. And then, as he stood up, the grin slipped away. Brennan faced a guardsman in the Mujhar's black-andscarlet livery. Hart, looking none too pleased with affairs, leaned against a table and clasped his ribs. His

handsome face was bruised, and one eye—the right—was plainly swelling and would soon turn black. Corin looked at his brothers. He looked at the sudden stillness in the tavern. He looked at the four Mujharan guardsmen flanking him. And then he sighed and sat down on a wine-stained bench to cradle his injured wrist. Three Reynald of Caledon strode stiffly through the center of the common room, stepping over the downed bodies of his royal escort and kicking aside fragments of broken crockery. His foreign face was set in an expression of distaste, irritation and arrogance; his dismay at the results of the fight was evident even as he tried to hide it. He drew himself up before the Mujharan guardsman who had set the lance shaft at Brennan's throat. Pointedly, he ignored Brennan altogether. "Your name?" he demanded. "Dion," the guardsman answered. "Captain of this contingent of the Royal Mujharan Guard." Reynald's dark brown eyes narrowed. "The Mujhar's men?" "Part of his personal guard," Dion answered. "Attached to the palace itself." The foreign prince nodded. "I am Reynald, cousin to Prince Einar of Caledon," he said flatly. "I wish to press charges against these three Homanans—I want you to see to it they are put in chains and locked away until justice can be levied. I intend to ask the Mujhar himself to hear my testimony." "My lord, it is your privilege to do so," Dion said quietly. "But may I suggest you reconsider—" "No, you may not, and I will not," Reynald answered. "I came here with my escort to enjoy an evening's entertainment in what I was told was a fine establishment." He cast a withering glance around The Rampant Lion. 33 34 Jennifer Robersw "These men intruded, provoking a fight, and I demand reparation for this affront to my honor, and that of my cousin. Prince Einar." "Oh, is Einar here?" Brennan asked lightly. "I did not see him." Reynald glared. "Because he is not present means nothing. You have injured my honor, and—as I am a

member of the Caledonese party here to celebrate the Mujhar's reign—what insults me also insults my lord prince." "Your pardon, my lord." It was Hart's turn. "But I fail to see how you were injured in any way. You let your escort do your fighting for you."

^ .:-

"Aye," Corin interposed before Reynald could anf:' swer. "You and Brennan could have settled it between you, but you provoked a fight. You gave the order to attack." He paused. "I think. It was in Caledonese, but

:;

it did serve to make your escort attack, whatever it was

-li:

you said."

^:

Color blazed irt Reynald's saturnine face. "I was required to protect myself. This man meant to provoke me." His outflung hand indicated Brennan.

^ \

"My lord?" Dion looked at Brennan.

^ ^

Brennan opened his mouth, but Reynald spoke before he could. " 'My lord,' " he mimicked, glaring at Dion. "You give him more honor than you give me."

-. -^ *"

"Aye," Dion answered smoothly; it was easy to see his opinion of the Caledonese lordling, regardless of his neutral expression and tone. "I mean you no disrespect, my lord, but this man will one day be my king." Reynald shut his mouth with a snap. He looked sharply from Dion to Brennan. "King," he echoed. There was,

i^ ^

-;

suddenly, the faintest trace of doubt in his tone. "One day," Brennan agreed. "Not for a long time yet;

i;

my father the Mujhar is, thank the gods, a spectacularly ,^ healthy man." The faintest of twitches jerked the comer $ of his mouth; he was purposely underplaying his hand, ^ which served to make it all the more devastatingly effective, Reynald looked first at Hart, then at Corin. And all of a sudden the color drained out of his face. "Obram save A PHIDK w PHMCES

35

me," he whispered, "you are all the Mujhar's sons. I remember, now—" "You remember, now." Hart grinned. "A bit slow, are you, Reynald? We met only yesterday, did we not? In the Great Hall before the Lion Throne?" "Where you wished our father for continued health." Corin link to royalty. Reynald was stand such arrogance, having

the Mujhar best wishes pointedly emphasized their the sort of man to underhis own fair share of it.

^,

"Chains, I think he said," Brennan told Dion. "Did you bring any with you?" "No, my lord. Should I fetch some?" Clearly, the captain was enjoying Reynald's discomfiture. Hart felt his ribs. "Enough," he said. "I think Reynald sees our point. And I think it is time we returned to Homana-Mujhar, before our jehan sends men out looking for us." He stopped short and looked at Dion. "Who did send you?" "/ did." Rhiannon stepped forward. The linen apron still bore bloodstains, now darkening, and her hand was wrapped in a clean cloth. "It was my fault this nonsense began. I thought I should be the one to stop it, so I ran to the palace and fetched them.'*"She looked at Brennan. Her eyes lingered a moment on the earring in his left ear, now exposed by hair pushed away from his face. "I—I was ungrateful before," she said in a low voice. "You did this for me." She wiggled fingers showing at the edges of the cloth wrapping. "I didn't want you to get hurt~wiy of you." Her eyes touched briefly on Hart and Corin, but moved back to Brennan almost immediately. Hart laughed. Conn's mouth twisted wryly. Brennan smiled slowly. "Then you have my thanks," he said, and looked at Reynald. "I think we have arrived at an impasse, my Caledonese lordling. You may, of course, press charges—we did extinguish most of your royal escort, three to ten—" he grinned, "—but perhaps we may simply let bygones be bygones, and meet over the banquet you and your cousin Prince Einar are supposed to host in my father's honor tonight." Brennan Jennifer Roberson paused. "And if we do not go now, we shall be quite late." Reynold looked at the remains of his royal escort. Several of the men were clearly unconscious. Others were merely stunned, beginning only now to pull their wits back together. Two were on their feet, unwounded; they scowled sullenly at their fallen comrades. Their lord, in his wine-stained silks and velvets, summoned what dignity he could muster. "Come," he ordered the two men still on their feet, and immediately departed the tavern. Corin watched him go, then turned back to Hart. "What about the others?" Hart grinned his lopsided, charming grin. "He is nephew to the King of Catedon, rujho, and cousin to Prince Einar. It is not for him to concern himself with